Valentine M'Clutchy, The Irish Agent eBook

“Sharpe, my good boy, I’ll trouble you
to take that Bible out of his hands. I am not
in the slightest degree offended, Darby—­you
will yet, I trust, live to know better, may He grant
it! I overlook the misprision of blasphemy on
your part, for you didn’t know what you said?
but you will, you will.

“This is a short reply to Mr. M’Clutchy’s
note. I shall see him on my way to the sessions
to-morrow, but I have told him so in it. And now,
my friend, be assured I overlook the ungodly and carnal
tenor of your conversation—­we are all frail
and prone to error; I, at least, am so—­still
we must part as Christians ought, Darby. You have
asked me for a breakfast, but I overlook that also—­I
ought to overlook it as a Christian; for is not your
immortal soul of infinitely greater value than your
perishable body? Undoubtedly—­and as
a proof that I value it more, receive this—­this,
my brother sinner—­oh! that I could say my
brother Christian also—­receive it, Darby,
and in the proper spirit too; it is a tract written
by the Rev. Vesuvius M’Slug, entitled ’Spiritual
Food for Babes of Grace;’ I have myself found
it graciously consolatory and refreshing, and I hope
that you also may, my friend.”

“Begad, sir,” said Darby, “it may
be very good in its way, and I’ve no doubt but
it’s a very generous and Christian act in you
to give it—­espishilly since it cost you
nothing—­but for all that, upon my sowl,
I’m strongly of opinion that to a hungry man
it’s a bad substitute for a breakfast.”

“Ah! by the way, Darby,” lending a deaf
ear to this observation, “have you heard, within
the last day or two, anything of Mr. M’Clutchy’s
father, Mr. Deaker—­how he is?”

“Why, sir,” replied Darby, “I’m
tould he’s breaking down fast, but the divil
a one of him will give up the lady. Parsons, and
ministers, and even priests, have all been at him;
but it is useless: he curses and damns them right
and left, and won’t be attended by any one but
her—­hadn’t you betther try him, Mr.
M’Slime? May be you might succeed.
Who knows but a little of the ‘Spiritual Food
for Babes of Grace’ might sarve him as well
as others. There’s a case for you.
Sure he acknowledges himself to be a member of the
hell-fire club!”

“He’s a reprobate, my friend—­impenitent,
hopeless. I have myself tried him, spoke with
him, reasoned with him, but never was my humility,
my patience, so strongly tried. His language I
will not repeat—­but canting knave, hypocrite,
rascal attor—­no, it is useless and unedifying
to repeat it. Now go, my friend, and do not forget
that precious tract which you have thrust so disrespectfully
into your pocket.”

Darby, after a shrewd wink at one of the apprentices,
which was returned, passed out, and left Mr. M’Slime
to the pursuit of his salvation.

In the mean time, as we authors have peculiar “privileges,”
as Mr. M’Slime would say, we think if only due
to our readers to let them have a peep at M’Slime’s
note to our friend Valentine M’Clutchy.